The Survivor
by Galadh
Summary: Mark, the survivor, has been killed when he was knocked off his bike by a car. How will his friends cope with the 'survivor' gone? Rated for language and drug use. EDIT: I've just found out that the breaks between paragraphs have gone. Sorry!


Joanne held a distraught Maureen in her arms, fighting back tears. And failing. They trickled down her cheeks, no matter how hard she fought to stem them. Her make-up was running, leaving black streaks everywhere. From time to time she wiped a hand across her eyes, but this only smudged it.

Mimi, too, had smudges down her cheeks. She was wrapped in Benny's arms, trembling violently. Benny was doing his best to comfort her, but was failing miserably. Mimi was sobbing convulsively – her whole body shook violently. Benny stroked her hair gently, holding her ever closer, but nothing would calm her. He looked stunned, as he couldn't believe it himself.

Collins was sitting by the bed. His head was in his hands and he was thinking deeply. Tears flowed freely as he cried. This was all too familiar. He gripped the hand of the now-dead body tightly, holding it to his cheek, as if for comfort.

Roger was the only one not crying. He was leaning against the doorframe of the room, his hands shoved roughly into his jeans pockets. His head was bowed, his fringe flopping in front of his eyes as if he was hiding from the world. He felt numb – he didn't know what to do. Mimi had tried to comfort him, but he had just ignored her, refused to look at her and pushed her away. No-one could consolidate him now.

"Maybe we should go," Joanne said softly, still cradling Maureen. Roger's head snapped round.

"No," he said shortly, before anyone else could say anything. "I'm not leaving."

"He's dead, Roger, what more can you do?" Joanne said, her voice gentle but firm.

"I'm staying," Roger said, more firmly.

"I'll stay," Collins' voice was thick with emotion. Mimi went up to Roger, put her arms around his neck and kissed him softly on the cheek. He hardly reacted, save for bending slightly to make it easier.

"I'm leaving now," she said. "Benny's taking me home – I mean giving me a lift. I'll see you back home?" Roger nodded glumly, unable to say anything. She kissed him again then went back to Benny, who put an arm gently round her shoulders, squeezing gently to console her. Maureen went over to the bed and gently kissed the body.

"'Bye, Pookie," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Love you." Joanne gently took her hand and led her away. Roger flopped down on a chair next to Collins and the bed. They were silent for a minute, Collins thinking, Roger massaging him temples, running his hand through his hair.

"I can't believe he's gone," he mumbled, after a few minutes, his voice cracking. Collins shook his head in agreement. "He was so… young. So… full of life."

"I know," Collins said gently.

"He was the survivor," Roger protested. "Everyone always said it. He was the one to survive – he would live the longest." Collins started to cry again, but Roger was still too numb. He looked at the battered body. "Why, Markie, _why_?" He dropped his head back into his hands, running his fingers through his hair again.

It was like something out of one of those shitty 1960s movies. Everything was a blur. But Roger didn't do anything. He lay on his bed, staring dully at the ceiling. Thinking. If Mark, the survivor, was gone, then shit. Roger was doomed.

Roger still felt numb. In shock. Alone. Watching Mimi, Joanne, Maureen and even sob, and knowing he couldn't, made him feel heartless. As if he didn't care. But thinking this made him angry. He _knew_ he cared. Mark had been his best friend for as long as he could remember. Just thinking of him made Roger's throat contract and the lump (which had formed when he'd heard about the accident and had never left) seemed to swell until he thought he would choke.

Maureen Johnson held a picture in her hands, sobbing. The glass of the frame was covered in tears drops. The picture was of her and Mark, when they'd still been going out. Mark's ginger-blond hair was spiked up and Maureen's wavy brown hair flowed over her shoulders. They were both laughing, Maureen's arms around Mark's neck in a loving embrace.

_Why did she ever break up with him?_ She wondered, almost angrily, running a finger over the picture, as if attempting to stroke his hair, caress his cheek, smudging the salty-water on the glass. _Would she have done it if she'd know he only had a few years of life left?_

Collins let himself into the apartment, only half-expecting to find Roger there. He was surprised. Roger was lounging round in an arm-chair, fiddling around with his guitar, trying to tune it and trying to play some sort of melody. He hardly seemed to notice Collins.

"Hey Roger," Collins said softly. Roger just grunted. "How are you doing today?" Roger concentrated firmly on his guitar, completely ignoring the question. Collins put the shopping (a bottle of milk, a loaf of bread and some form of sprits) on the metal table and perched himself on the little round coffee table in front of Roger. Again, Roger ignored him, bending further over the guitar. Collins sat, waiting patiently. Eventually Roger looked up.

"I can't get it," he mumbled, putting the guitar back on the sofa. "The song, I mean." And with that, he got up and busied himself making coffee.

"How are you doing?" Collins asked again, just as kindly, calmly, gently and patiently, as if it was the first time he'd asked. Roger grunted and shrugged.

"Coffee?" he asked. Collins indicated the spirits. Roger rolled his eyes, looking slightly bemused, but not able to smile.

"Have you taken your AZT?" Collins asked. Roger shook his head. The lump in his throat made it practically impossible to swallow. "Where is it? I'll go grab it."

"By my bed," Roger motioned towards his room. Collins went to go and get it, but a minute later, he was back, surprised.

"I could only find this," he held out an un-opened packet.

"Oh, I guess I must have finished my other one," Roger muttered, carefully not looking at him. Collins snorted.

"Roger, I only picked one up for you two weeks ago," he said. "You can't have finished it already." He gave him a very severe look. "You haven't been taking them, have you?"

"Will you just get off my back?!" Roger exclaimed.

"I'm just trying to look out for you," Collins said, more forcefully than normal, but still there was a touch of gentle calm in his voice. "You need to take them. You're just throwing your life away," Collins protested.

"For one happy day?" There was definite feeling of mocking in Roger's voice. "What is this, some sort of shitty musical?" He put the cup of coffee on the table and went back to his guitar, twanging at a few strings half heartedly before putting it down again.

"Roger, if you don't take this, then you'll die," Collins said, more firmly than he meant to.

"If I don't, I'll still die," Roger said viciously, his voice cracking. "Hasn't Angel or… or…" his voice changed to one of agony. "Or Mark…" he sighed, his voice shaking. "Haven't they proven this?" He looked away, missing the look of pain on Collins' face. Opening the bottle of spirit on the table, he put a large amount in his coffee before pouring some for Collins. "Here, this is for you." Collins gave a rueful smile, raising his glass.

"Cheers."

Roger was woken by the sound of the door to the apartment sliding shut. He was worried for a minute – was it burglars? – then relaxed. Even if it was, there wasn't anything worth stealing. All the same, he listened. He heard someone stumbling round, until they came into his room. A minute later, Mimi had slid into the bed next to him. She was freezing, shivering and obviously trying not to cry. Roger instinctively held her close. She pressed herself against him, her arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder.

"I… I just can't believe he's gone," she mumbled. Roger felt the lump in his throat grew slightly, and he nodded.

"I know," his voice was hoarse.

It was six in the morning. Roger was wide awake, but Mimi was asleep in his arms. Suddenly the phone cut across the silence. Out of habit, Roger screened it.

"_SPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK_." The answer-phone cut in. Roger winced. He really needed to change that message.

"_Roger, it's Collins_," Came the message. "_Just calling to say… Take your AZT. And look after yourself. Call me if you need to talk._" And then silence again.

Roger was following the advice Mark had always given him, and had left the house. Mimi had come and taken him to the park. As she walked with him, clutching his hand, his arm around her, she turned to him, her brown eyes inspecting him, as if trying to work out how he would react to something.

"What?" he asked.

"I don't know how you're doing it," she mumbled.

"Doing what?" Roger asked.

"Coping," she said.

"Coping with what?" Roger asked. But he already knew the answer.

"Mark," Mimi said. "He was your best friend, and you're carrying on as normal. How do you do it? I haven't even seen you cry yet. You're so… so... " Roger stiffened.  
"Shut up."

"What did I say?" Mimi asked, scared. He was angry.

"Just… shut up," Roger choked. He was having trouble getting the words out. "Just shut up about him."

"Roger, I'm sorry…" Mimi put a hand gently on his arm, but he pushed her off. "I didn't mean…" Roger stormed off.

He was wandering around the park, furious. Furious with Mimi. Furious with Mark. Furious with himself. Why had he been _stupid_ enough to shout at her like that? It wasn't as if it was her fault.

There was a man on the other side of the park. All alone. Before he knew what was happening, Roger had gone over to him, handed over roughly $200 and received a small plastic bag with white powder in.

When he was back at his apartment, Roger spent a bit of time preparing the drug before injecting it into his left forearm. Struggling not to cry out with pain, he realised how much he had missed the Not-A-Care-In-The-World feel of being sleepy and relaxed.

Until the nausea hit him. He jumped up from his slumped position on the floor to run to the bathroom, which he reached, just in time to vomit all over the floor. Curling himself up tightly, hugging his knees to his chest, he rocked, moaning, his head resting on the doorframe.

"Fuck…" he whispered, his eyes flickering shut. "Fuck."

Roger was sleeping easier now. And talking about Mark was less painful. But facing his friends was getting steadily harder and harder. Collins kept looking at him as if he knew, but facing Mimi was hardest. He had lost count of the amount of arguments they had had concerning drug usage. He was just a total hypocrite.

What would April do if she found out? He didn't want to know – didn't want to think about. But her doing anything would also be hypocritical. What would Mark have done? There was a jolt in Roger's stomach and his throat started to close up. If Mark hadn't died, he couldn't have restarted in the first place.

He was lying spread-eagled on his bed. He was holding a needle in his hand, having just used it. He was feeling very relaxed and sleepy, and the day had a generally warm and fuzzy feel to it. His other hand automatically reached for the phone. He needed to call Mimi, to apologise for what he had done to her. He needed to be with her. But he gave up. It would be better to do it in person. He swung his legs off the bed, sat up, made a vague attempt to sort out his hair, grabbed his denim jacket from the floor and left the apartment.

Mimi was in her apartment, getting ready to go to work. She was bending over her mirror, putting her lipstick on when Roger sidled in, waving at her reflection in the mirror. She turned to him and smiled.

"What's up?" she asked. He didn't normally come and see her before work.

"Mimi, I need to talk to you," he said. Mimi reached out and gently took his head.

"Shoot, I'm listening."

"It's about drugs," Roger muttered. Mimi flared.

"If this is about when I used them, then you just need to remember that I quit when-"

"No," Roger cut in sharply. "It's not about you." Mimi stared at him. "It's about me."

"You've gone back to drugs?" Mimi sounded wary, and scared. Roger bowed his head, ashamed. "Since when?"

"Two weeks ago," Roger avoided her eyes, which filled with anger and hurt.

"The amount of time you've told me…" she started.

"Mimi, listen," Roger said, grabbing her arm as she turned away. "You have to understand. Ever since Mark died…" he stopped, his eyes begging her to support him. She gave him a steely glare.

"I'm late for work," she said coldly. "Goodbye Roger."

Roger was lying on his back on his bed. He had his needle in his hands. It wasn't nearly time for another dose yet, but it was tempting. Angrily, he threw the needle across the room. It hit the wall and bounced off into the middle of the carpet.

There was a frantic knock at the door. Roger opened it, mystified. He hadn't expected visitors. Outside, he found Mimi, freezing cold and soaking wet from the rain outside. She had pulled her coat round her as tightly as she could, pulled her hat down as low as possible over her eyes and had her scarf on. Roger let her in and held her close.

"I had to come," she explained. "I was thinking. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted. After all the support you gave me, when I was… was a junkie… I know how hard it is to quit. I thought you might want some help-" She stopped. On the floor was Roger's needle. Following her gaze, Roger hurriedly picked it up. His hand closed around it, but he didn't have the courage or will-power to do anything about it. Mimi took it off him and snapped it sharply in two, then dropped it on the floor. As she jumped on one half, Roger couldn't help stamping on the other. The 'crunch' it made was satisfying.

_You have reached Joanne's answer-phone. Please leave message after the tone. Beep._

"Hi, Joanne," Maureen was pacing round and round her apartment, the phone clamped to her ear. "It's Maureen. Just calling to say hi. Have you thought any about Mark's funeral? Oh, and when we find out who did it, how do you feel about suing the shit out of the bastard? We need a lawyer, and as you knew him, I thought you might like…" she paused, taking a deep breath to calm herself. "Call me."

Roger was curled up in the small bathroom, hugging his knees to his chest. He was boiling hot, but kept shivering, trembling and sweating profusely. After one especially bad bought of nausea, his eyes darted too and fro, pupils dilated.

"Mark?" he called. "Collins? Mimi? Someone? Where are you?! Don't leave me here alone! Help!"

"Roger!" Mimi came and crouched in front of him, gently taking his face in her hands. "It's OK, Roger, I'm here." As she held him close, she could feel him shaking. She held out a mug of hot water from him to drink. It would hopefully set his stomach to rights and ease his vomiting. He pushed it aside angrily, unable to drink it. Mimi sat with him, holding his hand as he attempted to sleep, trembled violently, threw up, yelled out in agony and refused to eat.

Roger was getting fidgety. Ever since Mimi had snapped his needle, and not let him out of her sight to get another one, he needed something to do. He couldn't sit still. He tried fiddling around with the guitar, but that only hurt his fingers after a few hours of continuous plucking. He didn't have the patience to read a book; he didn't have the health to get a job.

Mark's room was its usual tidy self. There wasn't a book out of place, a piece of clothing on the floor. Except for the desk. The desk was covered in pieces of film. And the camera.

Not knowing why, Roger picked the camera, scrutinising it. He had barely had a chance to look at it properly before. Mark hadn't let anyone touch it. The only way you got to go near it was to be filmed. But Roger had hated it. He had always been furious when Mark had the camera out, pointing at him.

Out of instinct, he started winding it at the side, like Mark had done hundreds of times. It took quite a while, but it got to the point where he could wind it no further. He pointed it round the room, going slowly so it didn't blur, but it was shook in his still jittering hands.

"This is Mark Cohen's room," he told the camera. "He lived here. For many years. He will be greatly missed."

Sitting in the church, Roger felt like screaming. More than once, the sharp pains in his stomach made him double over in agony. To take his mind off it, he wound the camera up again and again. Mimi had been surprised when he had wanted to bring the camera to the funeral, but understood.

Maureen was the first to speak. She made her way slowly up to the front, paused to look down at the coffin, the turned back to face the congregation. There was a larger crowd than there had been at Angel's funeral, but it was still a depressingly small turn-out. Still, at least Mark's parents were there.

"When I first met Mark," she started in a halting voice. "I was wary. Jealous. He was still infatuated with his ex. My girlfriend. But when he told me how she was, how she acted, how she had treated him, I was angry. I told him it was different with me. Or maybe I was just telling myself. I know now that I was wrong. But this isn't about me and Maureen. This is about Mark.

"Mark was always a good kind of guy. Generally very happy, it became strange to see him without a camera in front of his face." Her eyes flicked to Roger, who she knew was filming. "When I first heard about… the accident, I was shocked. He was always so full of life." Unable to continue through the steady flow of tears, she sat back down. Maureen took her hand and attempted to comfort her.

"There were always the five of us," Benny said slowly. "Benjamin Coffin, Roger Davis, Tom Collins, Maureen Johnson and Mark Cohen. If you had asked me which I thought was going to die first, I would have said either Roger or Collins. Never would I have thought it would be Mark. None of us would." He bowed his head and went back to his seat.

"This all feels too familiar," Collins said, his voice strangely calm. "I always imagined him doing this for me, not the other way round." He shook his head, looking back up at the congregation. "I lived with Mark for many years. He was always saying '_This'll be the one, Collins. The film that makes it._'" He gave a small, ironic laugh. "None of them ever made it. Until his last one."

"Mark and I did everything together," Roger said, his voice almost a monotone, the lump in his throat blocking it. "I'd help him get stuff for his films, he got me through my drug addiction." His eyes involuntarily flicked to Mimi, who winced. "Until I left. We had a stupid argument and I stormed out. All the way to New Mexico. I shouldn't have gone. I wasted months. We were both so overjoyed when I got back…" He sighed.

"When I heard about the accident, obviously I was worried. _Would he be OK?_ When it was obvious he wouldn't, I was angry. '_Mark you idiot!_, I thought. '_Why did you have to go and…_'" he trailed off, unable to say the word 'die'. "First April, then Angel, and now Mark. Who's next? Which person to close me is going to go next? Maybe it'll be me, and I can end this suffering." He bowed his head, unable to believe he'd just said that, his voice hoarse and full of emotion. He didn't see Mimi crying.

They were standing around in the graveyard. The coffin had been buried, the priest had been paid, and they were all trying to get to grips with the idea that Mark was gone. And not coming back.

Roger had his arms around Mimi's waist as she sobbed into his shoulder. Joanne held Maureen close as Maureen burst into tears.

"I should have treated him better!" she said, over and over again. Mr and Mrs Cohen stood away from the rest of the group, looking pale. Mr Cohen went up to Roger and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Thank you Roger," he said softly. "Thank you for telling us. Thank you for inviting us… Thank you…" He turned and left, barely suppressing a sob.

Roger stood in front of Mark's grave. Everyone else had gone home, but he wanted to be alone. As he surveyed the grave-head-stone, he fell to his knees, completely breaking down, sobbing at last.

_Mark Cohen_

_The Survivor._


End file.
